


Wake Up, the Dream is Over

by illocutionary



Category: Glee
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illocutionary/pseuds/illocutionary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU (With Kurt not leaving for Dalton); Dave doesn't care what anyone says: either Blaine is in some sort of fight club or his diet consists strictly of chocolate and rainbows: no one can be that happy all the time. (Original post date: Dec 5, 2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Have Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to say that I wrote this before it became canon that Blaine was in a fight club. And no, he will not be in one in this fic, sorry! ^^

It's all Blaine's idea in the first place.

Kurt stares at him, one elegant eyebrow raised with the cattiest "are you kidding me" expression Blaine has ever seen on anyone, Tyra Banks included.

"He's getting better, isn't he?" Blaine tries to reason, tapping his fingertips on the table between them. "You said so yourself."

Kurt rolls his eyes, sitting back in a contemptuous huff. "Sure, he's stopped harassing me and told the rest of the team to back off, but it's not like he's suddenly out and became the world's most sociable guy. Never say I didn't try though," Kurt warns, wagging a finger, anticipating a rebuke, "I invited him to sit in during Glee, but he just mutters that "he's busy" and it's "too gay" even for him. Forget it, it's a lost cause."

Blaine frowns at that, but smothers it with a cough and a well placed "Please?" along with Grin #47, a potent mix of eyelash fluttering and his asymmetrical dimples showing.

Kurt glowers, but relents. No one can go against that face, least of all him.

**

"I'm warning you, Karofsky, one little..."

"Yes, I know, _Hummel_ , you'll find new, creative ways to embarrass me and destroy my repuatation." Karofsky snaps back, shoving the coffee shop door will a little more force than necessary, judging by the harsh jangling of the bell above.

"So long as we're both clear," Kurt sniffs, and walks briskly towards Blaine who's sitting in the back corner with a coffee mug already in hand. Karofksy shuffles behind him, and squeezes into the seat across from both of them.

Silence.

Kurt eyes the two of them; Blaine who looks like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, and Karofsky with his bored expression and catatonic posture. Nuclear talks with Iran weren't as frigid as this.

Suddenly, Blaine shoots a hand forward, "Hello, my name is Blaine, it's nice to meet you."

Dave stares at the hand offered, but brings forth his own to grasp onto Blaine's, playing along. "Dave," he mutters, before letting go, not so subtly wiping his hands on his jeans.

Kurt glares at the motion, but Blaine seems oblivious for whatever reason. He waves over a waitress and lets her take their orders: (black coffee for Dave; a mocha chai pumpkin-spiced chococappucino for Kurt).

"That's not coffee, Hummel, you could've gotten the same thing if you just heated up milk and sugar together." Dave remarks, sipping on his own Colombian brew and setting it down while Kurt glares at him over the froth in his beverage. Blaine snorts, which Kurt whips his head around, eyes-wide, before watching Blaine's shoulders convulse until the boy practically collapses on the table in helpless laughter. Dave on the other side of the table puts up a confused face, wondering what the hell is going on.

Kurt pursus his lips and sighs. That mild schizophrenia diagnosis was looking to be more and more plausible.

**

Dave finally managed to get home after getting chewed out by Kurt for being such a "despicable lout, _my god_ , Karofsky, would it kill you to...", but before he could open his front door, his phone in his front pocket started vibrating.

**Unknown number:**

_Hey, this is Blaine. Just wanted to say it was nice meeting you today. I'm guessing Kurt's giving you a hard time, but I think it went quite well. Would you be available next week for another cup of coffee?_

Dave makes a face, and punches out a succinct " _No_ ," before sending it off and jamming the phone back into his pocket while letting himself in the house.

Another message:

_Hum. How about Friday?_

Dave grits his teeth, shrugging off his jacket before typing out yet another " _No._ "

_Wednesday lunch?_

_Thursday after school._

_Sunday morning?_

_How does next week Tuesday sound?_

Dave stares at his phone, an onslaught of messages pouring in. Shit, this is bad. He has half a mind to call Kurt, but winces, remembering the verbal abuse he went through coming home. Telling him that his best gay not-boyfriend in the world is actually a sexual harasser? Does it even qualify as sexual harassment if it's an invite for coffee? What if coffee is some euphemism for gay sex? And even if he went to someone else for advice, then what? _"Oh hey, Az, some gay dude I met like an hour ago keeps texting me for coffee, I don't know what to do, man."_

Dammit, he may be gay ( _only_ maybe), but he hasn't turned into a freshman girl wondering if she should go to the prom with the senior quarterback.

Finally, Dave types back a dull "Fine," to which is phone whirs immediately afterwards with:

_Great! Tomorrow, 2:00 at my place it is. I'll send you a google maps of my house. See you then!_

Wait, what?

**

Dave drives into the gated community, goosebumps crawling up and down his arms as he grips the steering wheel. Every house on the block is impressive-- towering even, with lush gardens and huge driveways clearly meant for 8 or 9 sports cars and maybe a helicopter if needed. Dave shakes his head and concentrates on the road ahead, mentally pumping himself up. He was a footballer, a hockey jock, _and_ a wrestler on the side, a triple threat of manliness by any means. He wasn't going to chicken out just because every mailbox he's passed looks like it's worth more than his entire house or he's probably being propositioned for some "coffee", whatever the hell that means.

He finally finds the house and crawls into the driveway slowly, his trepidation growing more and more despite the pep talk he'd given himself earlier. He gets out of his car and makes his way towards the massive oak front door with more bravado than needed, shrinking back slightly as he heard the doorbell booming throughout the house. Another fifteen seconds, and the huge doors crack open, and Blaine pops his head out, smiling.

"Hey, welcome, glad you found it, come in, come in," Blaine chirped, opening the door wider to let Dave in. Dave strides in, feeling his bravado leave him as he faces a gigantic foyer with a chandelier that seemed to rival that of the New Years Eve ball. Blaine nudges a pair of slippers at Dave, and the boy steps out of his ratty Pumas for a pair of blue fuzzy slippers (fine, he'll admit: they're comfortable) and follows Blaine further into the house.

"Mother!" Blaine singsongs as he strides into the kitchen. "Our guest is here!"

Dave blinks. Blaine's mom looks like some sort of perfect Stepford, 1950s, Princess Diana-esque wife, wearing a floral print dress, hair primmed and in place, pearl earrings, all while carrying a tin of freshly baked cupcakes.

Shit, cupcakes. Dave feels even smaller. He loves cupcakes, hasn't had one since fifth grade at Donovan's birthday party.

She smiles, all teeth and dark red lipstick and sets down the tray, motioning for Dave to take one, who does, darting forward with speed that would've made all three of his coaches proud, and stuffing the confection in his mouth and letting out a muffled, "fanks." Fuck, this was good. Blaine plucks one out of the tin as well, nibbling on it without much gusto.

"Hullo, dear," she hums, not at all perturbed by the snake-like strike (what's with this family and being perfectly fine with everything?) "I take it you don't go to Dalton?"

Dave's about to respond, but he chews faster and swallows before shaking his head, "No, ma'am."

The all too polite smile makes a comeback and Dave tries to force his face into a smile of its own, but it's too late as she wipes her hands on the pristine apron and taps him on the shoulder. "Well, you're welcome to anything in the kitchen, and if you need anything, just call me." She excuses herself and makes her way up the stairs, heels clicking the hardwood as she ascends.

Blaine wipes the imaginary crumbs off his lapel and tosses a barely eaten cupcake into the trash, giving Dave an involuntary eye spasm.

They shuffle quietly into the den, where a monster tv laid in front of them, and Blaine gestured for Dave to sit down and murmured that he'll be back with beverages.

Driven by some sort of perverse carte blanche, even though he's only been in the house for less than ten minutes, Dave swipes the remote and clicks it on to the Lakers and Spurs game, sighing as he settles in for something familiar after that whirlwind of surreal reality.

"I'm not much of a Spurs fan," Blaine sniffs as he comes back with the coffee (oh thank god it's _actually_ coffee), both black as midnight and smelling heavenly, especially after all the sugar he consumed. It's held in a delicate china teacup and Dave frowns, feeling all the more awkward and overbearing as he tries to get a grip on the thin handle.

"Yeah? They're ok, I suppose," Dave says absentmindedly, sneaking glances at Blaine, completely at ease with a pinky out, even.

Dammit.

**

Blaine actually wasn't a terrible guy to hang out with—he was pretty chill, down-to-earth, and liked the NJ Devils, though he had a tendency to watch off-season tennis (“Really ,dude? Really?”).

It's _weird_ how well they're actually getting along. But Blaine keeps stuffing him with cupcakes and weird but pretty cool data and shit and Dave keeps him supplied with stories about running over guys on the football field and sandwiching other guys on the ice, and it's pretty nice to have such a captive audience.

"We should do this again soon," Blaine mentions out of the blue, as he walks Dave back to his car, "I'm thinking next week Saturday, same time at your place?"

"Wait, wha-"

"Ok, great, I'll look you up on google, see you then!" And with a wave, he saunters back into the house, leaving Dave at the wheel wondering what the fuck he just got himself into.

**

"This is my house."

Blaine looks around the foyer, at the quaint, but comfortable furniture, and Dave trudges up the stairs without telling him, leaving Blaine to scurry in order to catch up.

Dave opens the first door to the right, to a rather nondescript room. It's pretty standard for a teenage boy, with a jersey hung up and a signature on the lower right corner, a few model fighter planes hanging from the ceiling in the middle and a few jackets on the floor here and there.

"This is my room." In a way, Dave thinks he probably should give a better tour, but really, there's not much to look at.

“DAVE!” A girl about twelve storms into the room, hair done up in ponytail, gnawing on at least five pieces of gum and a sole ipod bud in one of her ear, the other dangling over her shoulder.

“Marcie!” David yells, “Would it kill you to knock?”

Marcie scoffs and crosses her arms, “It's not like you're ever doing anything important; are you done yet?"

Dave scoffs back, "I told you no!" throwing a crumpled up ball of paper at his sister, which she easily dodged, sticking her tongue out at him.

"Hurry up then! Elsie said she wants it!"

Blaine catches her eye, and he automatically smiles, to which she rolls her eyes and saunters out of the room. Blaine’s smile dims a little. Usually when he comes over to his friends’ place, their sisters would be blushing and stammering before scuttling away. What was with the Karofskys and forever being unimpressed?

“What is she talking about?”

Dave sighs, “Can you keep a secret?”

Blaine tilts his head. “Aren’t I keeping one right now?”

Dave grins wryly, but relents. “Good point.” He gets up and Blaine does the same.

**

“Don’t tell Kurt about this.” Dave mumbles, unlocking the door. Blaine is about to ask why, but his voice catches in his throat as he looks in.

“You..have a studio?”

Dave grunts in reply, shuffling into the room and opening the door for Blaine to come in. A gleaming mac sits in the far corner, and Dave is making his way towards it, shaking the mouse to bring up the screen and with a few clacks of the keyboard is signed in. He throws a pair of Bose headphones at Blaine, who almost doesn’t catch it, too transfixed by the room and the jungle of wires on the ground, the huge speakers that look more at home in Madison Square Garden than an attic, and the gigantic mixing board at the center of it all.

“Hey.”

Blaine looks up, and Dave has another pair of headphones on, and he taps one ear and motions him to come forward. He inserts the headphones into the mac as well, and starts up a song. “What’s this?”

“Something I was messing around with.” Dave murmured. Blaine waits, until he’s suddenly sucker punched with realization: Teenage Dream. It’s been spliced, stomped on, shattered into a million pieces —utterly raw, dirty and gritty. It feels like blood in his mouth, his heart disintegrating into nothing, and his mind wiped blank. He lets out a breath he doesn't know he’s holding, gripping onto the headsets, hardly registering as Dave fiddles with the dashboard, making minute changes to the track in an attempt to look busy.

Blaine closes his eyes, and sits down heavily on the couch, feeling as if the rug was torn out from under his feet. Perry’s voice, once so sugar pop and candy sweet is mangled into a haunting aria about nostalgia and regret. It’s strangely freeing—cathartic and brutal and peaceful all at the same time. Like he's drowning in air, caught up in a frenzy, the same maniacal concentration that he only feels in that millisecond when he's onstage singing, that expanse of time when the world finally make sense. He looks up to see Dave wringing his hands a bit and he pulls down the headphones as Dave quickly does the same as he pauses the song.

“Do you…like it?”

**

“I did it to piss people off.”

They’re now lying on the couch, staring upwards at the ceiling as they listen to Dave’s playlist. It’s mostly quiet, with a few interjections here and there but they’re mostly listening.

“It was back in 2007.” Dave explains quietly, “That stupid _Girlfriend_ song had just came out, and it was fucking everywhere. I hated it.

So I downloaded some software, fucked around with it, and uploaded it on youtube and made it look like an official video to trick the people who were looking for the real thing.” He laughs. “Turns out people actually liked it.”

“It’s good.” Blaine reiterates for the tenth time that afternoon, but Dave shrugs it off. “I don’t understand, why is this such a secret though?”

“It’s not really much of a secret,” Dave grunts. “The team knows, but they don’t really care. I’ve never really shared any of my stuff. Az requested some stuff to be mixed for him, or to make him a compilation album for some parties he throws, but nothing beyond that. He just doesn't really get it.”

“Marcie wants some songs done just for her, so she can show it off to her friends, but it’s not so bad.” Dave grins, “she’s got a good sense of what’s good to distort and shock.”

Blaine nods. “So why don’t you want Kurt to know?”

Silence. Dave grits his teeth, “I don’t sing. I don’t dance. I love music, but I honestly can’t stand the songs he likes or the stuff they sing in that club. Everytime he shows me his playlist, I keep thinking about how much I want to rip the songs into shreds, stuff them up with some bass line or some synths and play it backwards or something.”

He laughs, “Maybe it’s for the best, that I don’t mess with him. He can have his music, while I have mine.”

An uneasy silence fell between them, of what's not being said, and Blaine shifts, watching Dave out of the corner of his eye.

“Took me three summers to work for all this stuff,” Dave explains, starting the conversation back up again, “including mixing songs for Marcie in exchange for her allowance.”

"It's impressive." Blaine nods, "something out of a recording studio."

Dave struggles with the next phrase, “I’m…not so much ashamed as I just…I just don’t want people to know. It’s personal.” He turns, scrunching his shoulders in as he taps out a rhythm.

"Yeah." Blaine breathes, letting out a sigh. "I get it."

 

**

"Are you interested in Dave?"

Kurt nearly spits out his half-caf, low fat, splenda-sugarized hot milk with a hint of coffee, to which Blaine offers up a napkin.

"Where the hell did that come about?" Kurt chokes, wiping his mouth and trying to remember how to breathe.

Blaine shrugs. "Just wondering. I think he's not all that bad as you make him out to be."

Kurt rolls his eyes, "I'm not that desperate, Blaine. I can keep my hormones in check enough not to ravish my ex-bully."

Kurt finally calms down enough to sip at his drink, trying to pretend he didn't see that Cheshire grin linger on Blaine's face.

**

It's fucking weird.

It finally hit Dave over the head, after two months. Bludgeon him, more like: Blaine's somehow became his new best friend.

It started out with Blaine simply coming over every single day after choir rehearsals, without warning. Dave raised an eyebrow the first few times, before slamming the door in Blaine's face. His resolve usually crumbled by the time he reached the last step up the stairs and he sighs, turning back and opening the door to a glowing smile that was too amused for its own damn good. Some days they hardly do anything but do homework separately, sometimes ordering a pizza if Blaine stays over too late for dinner, but most of the time they trudge up to the attic and crank out new remixes. Blaine, in Dave's opinion, has entirely too many ideas for someone who's just sitting there and giving out utterly vague orders like, "this needs to be more dance-y" or "make this part slower", forcing Blaine to at least learn some basics in mixing and sampling.

It kind of went downhill from there.

"God, fucking _go home_ already." Dave whines, not caring if he sounds petulant and childish at this point.

Blaine waves it off, toggling the board switches as he readjusts his headsets. "You can go to sleep, I'll be gone when I'm done."

"It’s," Dave checks his watch "four thirty in the morning, you fucker,” Dave growls, “you’ve been saying that you’ll be gone for the past five hours.”

Blaine nods, “but I’m not done.”

“Don’t you have sectionals coming up?”

“What?”

Dave groans, stomping over to the power switch and shutting everything off, ignoring Blaine’s choked, “Hey!” He tugs at Blaine’s blazer and leads him down the steps and across the hall to his room, shutting it before shoving Blaine to his bed and throwing a pair of sweatpants and a huge tshirt into his face. “Change. Sleep.” Dave grunts, rooting through his closet for a sleeping bag and dragging it out, and nabbing a pillow off the bed before burrowing into the bag and turning over, intent on getting sleep.

Blaine does as he’s told, slipping under the covers and changing underneath them, humming to himself.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dave warns from the floor.

Blaine softly laughs, “Aren’t you excited though? The first ever DJ Taser and Clinical Production mixtape!”

“I keep telling you that we’re not naming ourselves that. I don’t want to become the laughing stock of the internet.”

“I already made a domain name though.”

Dave grits his teeth, “ Can’t we just use my soundcloud account?”

“Think bigger, Dave, and DonkeyKong94 is so uninspired.”

“It’s how everyone knows me as."

“Obviously we’re in need of a rebranding.”

"We?"

"Yes, _we_."

"Oh, and we might as well buy a house in Vermont and adopt babies from China while we're at it!" Dave snaps, before clamming up. "Whatever."

"I wouldn't mind, actually," Blaine jokes, trying to keep the mood from sliding into awkward territory.

"Shut up, dude," Dave mumbles out before turning over and falling dead asleep.

**

"We need a couple of mics in here."

Blaine is tapping his foot along to a sample they just ripped while Dave is picking out synths and orchestral strings to go along with the song. Over the past few weeks, they've downsized the amount of space they need to walk, simply by moving the mixing board and the two macs closer together and sitting glued together from shoulder to knee on the couch. Dave doesn't mind, especially when the other alternative was Blaine practically sitting on his lap. They work rather efficiently this way, just a tap on the shoulder will redirect the other's attention and a rip and replug of the headphones will tune the other in as to what he was doing.

"What for." Dave mumbles absentmindedly, toggling the board.

"Covers!" Blaine shoves his mac right under Dave's nose, "I know how much you like Hird, we can start with him."

Dave shoves the computer back at him and snorts, intent on tuning him out, when Blaine starts singing, smooth and assured:

_I believe in love,  
Love believes in me,  
Though it tribulates,  
And my heart tests my sanity  
And I know that this love is going to hurt someday,  
But I don't care about that now.  
And maybe all our truths will be lies someday,  
But I don't care about that now._

Dave pulls down his headphones as Blaine starts humming the rest of the song. It's quiet, as Dave tries to shut the fluttering in his stomach down, and he clasps a hand to his chest. Fuck, is this what a heartburn feels like?

"How about it? Did I make it through the auditions?"

"Oh, don't call us, we'll call you."

**

He can't fucking believe it.

"What did you do and why did you do it." Dave deadpans, staring at the screen, with Blaine hovering over his shoulder, practically bouncing with excitement. That bastard.

"Since you didn't like any of my name suggestions, I turned it over to our listeners to make some up in a contest." Blaine explains, all salesman sophistication and charm. Dave's not falling for this one.

"And you _had_ to put up pictures of us, why?" He jabs the screen at his own image, his eyes masked with a black stripe as if he's in some sort of trashy supermarket magazine, "and when the fuck did you take this picture?!"

"When you were sleeping, obviously. It's interesting how you won't wake up even when there's flash."

"Take it off." Dave's not even going to bother mentioning how fucking creepy it is to be photographed when sleeping. He's kind of given up on explaining these kind of things to Blaine.

"What, after all that work I went through to get it?"

"Oh, I can totally see how much you care for my dignity, as opposed to yourself," Dave scoffs, waving a hand at Blaine's image, all smiles and laughter and even messed around with in Photoshop, though there was a similar black line in front of his eyes too.

"You're just that flawless," Blaine shrugs, as he tries to pry Dave's hands off the keyboard to dissuade him from logging in. "Oh, please just keep it up, I'll take them down in 24 hours when the contest is over."

"Don't trust you," Dave mutters darkly, but in a moment of weakness at Blaine's hands wrapped around his, _shit, they're all soft and shit,_ Blaine manages to pluck them off and rescue the laptop.

"Trust me, this is going to be phenomenal."

And Dave doesn't like the sound of that.


	2. Passive Me, Aggressive You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bea for looking over this. ♥

River and Fox.

"It's...not bad," Dave admits, sounding it out in his head. By the looks of it, Blaine's picture had already circulated around the internet like wildfire, earning him the name of 'Fox' at lightning speed. Their comment box was jammed with catcalls and sexual favors, to which Blaine had sat down and wrote an unique reply back to every one stating that he was flattered, but would have to decline.

"You are so fucking weird," Dave says, scrolling down on his laptop as he sees all of Blaine's personalized little messages. "And stop looking so proud of yourself, dude, you're not the one that thought it up."

"Indirectly, Dave, indirectly," Blaine shoots back, flicking past the comments on his phone as well. "Hey, look, this one called you a stud muffin," he points out, tapping the reply button, "thanks, sexy, I'll try to stay hot and buttery just for you," he dictates as he types, pressing submit before Dave has a chance to swipe at the Droid. He gets up and starts walking away, to which Dave follows, his face getting redder and redder.

"Ohhhmuhhhggggguudddd," Blaine sounds out, clearly enjoying himself, "I already came with that Spank Rock remix, I'm never leaving my bunk after this."

Blaine suddenly whirls around, and Dave actually backs up, nervously glancing at Blaine's maniacal grin. He shoves his phone right into Dave's face, shaking it so the screen tilted from vertical to horizontal at an alarming rate. "Face it, Dave, _this_ is exactly what we needed."

**

For all of next week, neither of them mix anything, as Blaine designs the website from scratch, crawling through web design forums and getting into heated discussions on skype over coding with tech geeks from Purdue and Michigan State. Dave was initially given the job of replying to all the comments they've been getting lately, but after Blaine noticed that Dave's just punching out one word replies, even to the spam bots, he's regulated to "sitting over there and thinking about what you've done." So he sort of lays around, pretending to get his _Catcher in the Rye_ read, but his mind is whirling with Van She and PNAU and Digitalism and wondering if he can just throw Blaine out of his second story window and how much he's cool with doing 20 to life.

And as promised, Blaine did take down the pictures, only to put up 10 more of just himself, in various outfits and angles of his face. Dave doesn't say anything, eyes flickering up over the screen, landing on Blaine taking a nap on his couch-- dammit why didn't he just _go home_ for these things-- and quietly saves a photo or two into a folder of a folder of a zip file labeled "stuff".

**

Friday.

Blaine's Warbler responsibilities are catching up to him, and with Regionals coming up, it means Dave's actuallly getting some time alone for once. He's over at Azimio's place, shooting baskets, something brought on by sheer boredom and nostalgia for eighth grade.

"I never see you anymore, dude."

"Yeah, sorry about that." Dave's been saying that a lot. To his parents, his sister, a bunch of his jock friends, and even his physics lab partner. He's surprised it's taken Az this long to say anything about it. He feels pretty shitty about it, but he can't even kid himself anymore, trying to tell himself that Blaine isn't worth it.

So. Yeah.

Az steals the ball from him, and attempts a throw at a half court distance that goes over the backboard, "It's like you're fucking invisible, I can't _find_ you at school, your phone is always off, and you don't reply to anyone's texts."

Dave jogs over into the bushes to retrieve the ball, and tries for a corner shot. He misses. "I...got caught up. In stuff."

"Did you join the CIA?"

"Why would the CIA want some kid in the middle of fucking nowhere for?"

Az raises his hands, palms open. Dave chest passes to him. "Just saying, the only person more secretive about what the fuck they're up to is Kim Jong Il."

"You're seriously comparing me to a dictator."

Az just shrugs, "I just hope that with all the free time on your hands, you're creating a isolated, totalitarian country and ruling over it with everyone calling you 'Our Great Leader'."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence."

"Noooooo problem."

\--

Dave doesn't really know, but he's guessing Blaine's not very subtle link to a live stream of the regionals competition probably means that he should be watching or whatnot. He does, however, out of minimal solidarity texts a quick "gl", and lets the stream play in the background.

Which makes it a little surprising when he gets a "we lost" about forty-five minutes later after booting up the stream. He quickly opens up the window to see that the stream has gone offline.

David winces, and is about to reply with a 'sorry' before he hearts the doorbell chime and gets an incoming message:

_Open the door, Dave. I'm here._

David scowls, and he makes himself leaves the comfort his beanbag chair to let Blaine in. The doorbell rings a few more times as he ambles down the stairs. Dave wrenches open the door with a little bit more aggression than he intended, but it didn't seem to deter Blaine. Nothing ever did.

The boy has his arms outstretched, and a small grin on his face. "I'm inconsolable, but you can try your best."

\--

Later, they dine on Carvel ice cream cake that Blaine had picked up from Walmart. Dave doesn't know why Blaine isn't with his bird friends drowning his misery in wine and crème brûlée like a proper rich kid, but Blaine takes a vicious bite out of the cake and Dave smothers down the urge to wipe the ice cream off Blaine's face, watching the vanilla drip down his face.

"Did you hear me today?"

"I think I missed it." Dave says honestly.

Silence.

"It's ok. I wasn't that great today." He stabs another piece of cake and forklifts the whole thing into his mouth, effectively cutting off any conversation. 

He enters a sugar coma in an hour, and Dave doesn't even have the heart to tell him to go home, covering him up in a Red Wings blanket, shutting off the lights, and heads downstairs to watch _Deadliest Catch_.

When he wakes, at five am, he's got a crick in his neck, a line of drool running across his cheek, and his blanket on top of him.

He thinks he sees Blaine, arms crossed, hovering by the edge of the sofa, but doesn't question it, drifting back to sleep.

**

"Oh please oh please oh _please_..."

"Get off, Blaine!" Dave barks, trying to untangle Blaine's arms from around his neck. Blaine is hanging on his back like a koala bear, his legs scrabbling to find a foothold around Dave's waist.

"Please, for the love of god, just say yes," Blaine chirps, "we've finally got a chance to host an event, and you're giving that all up?"

"It's all the way in Pittsburgh. That's about 4 hours."

"It can be 3 if you speed...a lot."

Dave just stares at Blaine. Did he not notice the stack of books Dave fished out from the back of his locker for finals cramming? "Look, I've got to get at least an 80 in Physics or else--"

"Daaaave, it's just a few hours, it'll be like a mini road tr--"

David slams the table, silencing Blaine as he stands up, pointing a finger into the boy's face.

"No one's _stopping_ you from going alright? And not everyone is so naturally smart and shit and have daddies that rake in seven figure salaries just from breathing." Dave could've bitten his tongue in half at the face Blaine is making, and lets his shoulders sag slightly and takes away the finger. But Dave continues looming over him, feeling too bitter for too long and not willing to back down.

Blaine's lips presses into a thin line, and he turns back to snap his laptop shut, shoving everything quickly into the overnight bag he brought along.

"Sorry for wasting your time," he snipes before striding out of Dave's bedroom and letting himself out, making sure to slam the door extra hard. Dave bristles, but forces himself to sit down, trying to understand the relationship between the spring constant and amplitude.

And in the end, Dave fires off a cautionary "Hey." two hours later, but never gets a reply back.

**

It wasn't until a week after their fight that Dave started getting an onslaught of texts from Blaine, interspersed about two minutes apart.

_I'M HERE!_

_FREE BAR! EVERYTHING! What do you think I should get? I’m going to try their martinis._

_This is really good, Dave, you’re really missing out._

_Daaaaaave oh my godddddd what is this this is soooooooooooooo goooooood._

_Oh, no wonder, they added like 10 pounds of sugar in it, oh well._

_They just called me up! Wish me luck!_

_YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_

_WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO_

_AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_

_Dave, they *LOVED* your set, you should’ve heard the crowd, they went nuts! Everyone was so disappointed that you didn’t come. I am too! Geez, Dave!_

_You really should’ve come, there’s a lot of guys asking about you. They’re really nice too!_

_Nevermind, they weren’t so nice._

_Oh god, why are they playing Ke$ha what have I ever done to them. More chocoalt grasshoppers now._

_You should’ve come._

_You SHOULD have come why didn’t you come did you really think I’m embarrassing I don’t know WHAT your problem is karofsky._

_You suck._

_This sukcs._

_I wish yo uwere here._

_I mis you._

_A lot._

_A super super lot._

_Coukd you xome get me?_

Dave growled, before shutting off his phone and throwing it clear across the room, where it laid in a pile of unwashed clothes.

Fucking dumbass.

**

In the end, Dave calls up a friend who goes to Carnegie Mellon, some Brazilian-Pakistani rapper that he met over youtube a year ago, and the guy agreed to let Blaine crash at his place for the night to sober up. Dave restlessly thumbs over the messages he recieved from Blaine the whole night, almost wishing that the boy was still texting-- at least it would verify that he wasn't dead or bleeding out on the streets of Pittsburgh. His phone vibrated and he taps the receive call button, "He's ok?"

"Fine. Just went to sleep," Kamran hums, "everything's fine."

"Sorry about this," Dave grumbles, feeling utterly embarrassed-- he's pretty sure Blaine did something terrible or life-endangering, but Kam is so unnaturally chill about everything that Dave is pretty sure that if it had been anyone else, he'd be bitched out to hell and back about how insufferable Blaine is.

"Nah, it's no big deal." A pause. "He did start yelling a bit when I told him that you weren't coming to pick him up, then sang, then cried himself to sleep. It was kind of cute. Except for the part where the upstairs neighbor called to complain."

"Oh god." Dave scrubbed his hand over his face, rubbing at his temples for a good measure, "Look, I'm so, so, sorr--"

"Don't be," Kamran cuts in, and Dave can hear the smile over the phone, "It's good that you're looking out for him."

"I shouldn't have to," Dave interjects, knowing full well how callous he sounds. Whatever.

"Alright, alright. You coming over at 10 tomorrow?"

Dave sighs. "Sure, I'll be there."

\--

Dave actually gets there by nine instead, after racing down the highway, squinting at the rising sun all the while. He contemplates just waiting at least until nine thirty before bothering the rapper, but his phone trills with Lupe Fiasco, and he picks up to Kamran amusedly telling him that he can see his car from the window and inviting him inside.

"Is he awake yet?"

"No," Kamran admits.

"Er-- you want Ihop?"

"Be down in a sec."

\--

He directs Dave to the closest International House of Pancakes, and they walk in to a smattering of families occupying the plastic seats for Sunday brunch. Dave insists on paying for everything, and in the end, Kam relents, if only to somewhat ease Dave's conscious. Though he's starting to enjoy himself in Kam's company as they talked shop over waffles, hash browns and scrambled eggs, that feeling of guilt still lingered at the pit of his stomach.

"I really have to hand it to you, Karofsky," Kamran goes on after taking a deep swig of his coffee, "your latest stuff is absolutely sick."

"Thanks," David says, feeling a little awkward. It's one thing to read comments, another to actually hear it out loud. "You're really doing well yourself."

"Excuse me, which one of us broke 500k subs on youtube?"

David shrugs, "That's all Bl-- Fox. Fox, I mean." Dave's mind flickers over all of the dancing "music videos" Blaine's put up, shoddily edited, but still breaking at least ten thousand views per video and tries not to scowl too obviously.

Kamran grins, tracing a finger around the rim of his off-white ceramic coffee cup. "Please, don't even bother. The guy that's on my sofa right now is a singing drunk, but he's still pitch perfect." He leans forward, pulling out his iphone. "If you want, I'll send over the vid. You'll get at least 3 million views, easy."

Dave sits back, pushing himself away from the table and holding his hands up in surrender, "Not you too..."

Kamran shakes his head, "hey, if I was collaborating with a dude that good looking, I'd exploit the hell out of it myself." Noticing Dave's grimace, he leans a bit forward. "Something wrong?"

"Dunno," Dave admits, toying around with a couple of sugar packets, flicking them around, "I just... don't get him sometimes. He makes all these unreasonable requests then acts like it's the end of the world when you don't follow along. And he thinks he's so-- so _brilliant_ , and fine, sometimes he's got a good idea, but it's just so-- fucking stupid. He thinks he knows better than anyone else, then won't owe up that he fucked up, you know?" Dave flings the sugar packets across the table, clenching his fists, "Like I could fucking let it go if he could just do the same. And for all his madcap, adventuring romps? It's easy enough to say no, but then he just pulls out his fucking guilt card, and I don't know whether to actually give a shit or fucking punch him in the face!" He ends by slamming the table, shocking the dining area into silence.

Dave looks to the side, as the anger floods out of his body. He slightly hunches his shoulders, knowing that his face is burning. "Didn't mean to say all that."

Kam shakes his head, before tapping the table slightly, "He seems like a lot to handle, but I think he's a good thing for you, forcing out that talent. You always seem kind of reserved, back then." Kam smiles, "now you have that 'I'll fucking do whatever I fucking want,' vibe, working with him."

"I don't know if that's the product of me not even caring anymore or what, knowing that I'm just making background music while he wiggles his ass in front of a webcam."

"Karofsky, as much as it's good to say all this out loud, in the end, he's the one who needs to know. You need to tell him this."

"Yeah," Dave mutters noncommittally, downing the last of his coffee, and raising a hand to signal a waitress.

"Check, please?"

\--

When they get back to Kamran's place, Blaine's already up, still cocooned in the puffy sleeping bag that Kamran managed to stuff him into last night and staring blankly at the TV that's not even turned on.

"Hey, you ok?" Kam asks, dropping his keys onto the hook by the door.

Blaine turns his head, and his eyes widen slightly at Dave strolling in. "Yeah. Thanks for taking me in."

Kam waves it off, heading towards the kitchen. "Need anything? Water? Coffee?"

"Water's fine." Blaine replies, still staring at Dave who's hovering around the doorway, not making eye contact.

Kam looks between the two, mouth twitched into a frown, but doesn't say anything about the silent exchange. "Dave got you pancakes from Ihop," he tries instead, and Dave's marches forward a little mechanically, thrusting the box in front of Blaine.

The smaller boy blinks, before pulling his arms out of the sleeping bag and taking the package with a mere nod, opening it and nibbling on the strawberry sitting on top.

"Ready to go home?"

\--

They said their goodbyes to Kam and first pulled up to a gas station before setting off, both quiet, neither one really knowing what to say.

In the end, Dave breaks first, "You ok?"

"Yeah." Blaine risks a glance. "I thought you were mad at me, David." Blaine says after they passed the state border.

"Was." Dave admits. "Don't worry about it."

"I thought you were going to leave me there."

David snorts, a spike of anger rushing through his system, and he clenches the wheel a little. "Did you think I'm that petty?"

"No," Blaine amends, "I would've too. Not come to find me, I mean. I kind of deserved it."

"Whatever," David grunts, and they fall into a moody silence again. Blaine is resting his head on the window, an unfinished pancake still in the styrofoam container on his lap, and Dave plucks it out and shoves it into his mouth, dusting off the powdered sugar around his mouth and fingertips.

"Thanks, though. For all..." Blaine waves a hand around, before flopping back down to the arm rest, "this."

"Don't mention it."

**Author's Note:**

> AN: The song Blaine is singing is I love you My Hope by Hird.


End file.
